


Globiphilia

by Iocane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221 b drabbles, 221B Ficlet, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Foreplay, Kink Meme, M/M, Paraphilias, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iocane/pseuds/Iocane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his teens, John had a balloon kink.  After being mocked by a girlfriend, he packed away that part of himself and forgot about it.  Until the day he walks into 221B and finds it full of balloons, with Sherlock blowing one up.</p><p>This began life as a fill on Kink Meme to this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=124545007#t124545007</p><p>(Edit: Reposting the first chapter with a few corrections regarding verb tense, and some logistics to do with the two doors into the apartment. May 20, 2013)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Globiphilia

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to the original anon poster for their bouncy, squeaky, sticks-to-the-wall-when-staticy prompt! 
> 
> Extra special thanks go to [ShortlockHolmes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortlockHolmes/profile) for beta, Britpicking, ironing over a few spots and generally dragging the story kicking and screaming into a better place.

John knew the exact moment it began, and when he decided to end it.

It started when he was twelve, before his sister's birthday party. Susie Kroger, a friend of Harry's had cornered him, asking if he'd help her blow up some more balloons. She was fifteen – practically a woman, so of course he'd agreed.

After a few, she asked if he'd ever kissed a girl. He was pulling on a balloon when she asked, stretching it before blowing it up. The question startled him and the rubber snapped against his fingers. Susie had laughed and said he was cute. Holding the balloon she herself had just blown up and tied off, she leant over and kissed him.

The inflated balloon was pressed between them as the kiss lingered. When she'd pressed closer, her tongue teasing his lips, the balloon popped and John realised he had as well. Suddenly his lap felt strange and he could feel a growing wetness. Not quite understanding, thinking he'd somehow soiled himself, he panicked, scrambled away with a red face and locked himself in his bedroom for the remainder of the night. He never saw Susie again.

It didn’t take him long to work out that he hadn't actually pissed himself, but his scared, excited young mind didn't take any real comfort in the revelation that one little kiss and a popping balloon had resulted in his first orgasm.

It wasn't until later that he fully acknowledged some of the fallout of that evening. His own birthday party and he was helping blow up some balloons. He felt the rubber stretch against his fingers, the taut material expanding in his palm. As he tied off the third one, he had to shift and ease the pressure on his erection.

It wasn't the only time he got hard – he was a teenage boy, after all. But balloons certainly enhanced the experience, even if he kept it strictly to the realm of fantasy and masturbation. Just something he did occasionally to spice things up, like how he'd wank while wearing a leather glove.

Christie was his first serious girlfriend – they dated for two months and had even had sex a few times when he mentioned it to her. She'd said she wanted to have sex when he was just in his leather jacket, so he felt it was fair and safe to mention his own little… thing.

It hadn't gone well.

That night, after his first serious breakup, he carefully went through his room, tossing out the bags of balloons, opened and unopened, all rubber or latex; the Mylar ones didn't do it for him. Plain matte and metallic sheens, clear and opaque and translucent, large and small. Even long, slender animal balloons. All binned. He found himself glad that it was the balloons themselves that did it for him, and not pictures.

Luckily, he was already at the age where balloons weren't a regular thing, and running into them occasionally didn't bother him very much. He carefully and staunchly binned his taste for balloons along with the balloons themselves, and vowed to never think of it again. By the time he got to medical school, he'd pushed it down so hard and so deep that even rubber gloves had no effect on him – no matter how many times they were inflated and painted like roosters.

*

**

*

Years later, after med school, the army, and his shoulder, he believed he was well and truly rid of his little kink. Believed it so much he hadn't thought about it in decades.

Until he came home and walked into a long-forgotten fantasy.

Sherlock, sitting on the sofa in his pyjama bottoms, T-shirt and dressing gown, slowly blowing up a balloon. And fuck if it wasn't one of the long, slender animal ones. They had been his favorite to imagine others blowing up – even when fully inflated he could see the person's face, and still have the balloon. The long, slim bodies going from flaccid to comfortably taut also reminded him of an erection and almost every time he'd thought of it, his own cock had matched the progress of the imagined balloon.

John looked around slowly, swallowing tightly as his whole body seemed to become hyperaware. It was as if Sherlock had found his binned fantasies and inflated every single fucking one.

"John! Come help, we need to blow all of these up." Sherlock stopped inflating the long green balloon and tossed a bag at John's chest.

Only his soldier's reflexes caused his hand to snap up and catch the bag, though he dropped it like it was on fire when he felt the plastic wrapped latex squeeze between his fingers. "W-What's this about?" He tried to keep his voice even and shifted the bag of groceries so it would conceal his erection.

"It's for a case!" Sherlock said, then actually seemed to _look_ at John as the balloon he held deflated.

Jesus _Christ_ , if that wasn't hot. John's face flamed as he watched the progress, the pinch of Sherlock's long fingers allowing the air to escape slowly. The quiet, hollow sound filled the air between them. John didn't even dare to breathe.

John stood frozen and shatteringly aroused as Sherlock set the deflated balloon aside and stood. He swallowed as the movement disturbed the balloons on the sofa around Sherlock, sending them bouncing against each other and spilling to the floor. John finally exhaled a sharp gasp as he struggled with his reaction.

He was so fixed on the delicate balance between gravity and static that kept one wobbling balloon perched atop a pile, that he didn't realize Sherlock was approaching until the man said his name.

"John." The deeper-than-usual baritone snapped John out of his thoughts. "You're aroused."

_Jesus fucking_ _ **Christ**_ , John thought. It had to be the balloons. No way was Sherlock's voice making him shiver. Nor his proximity. Or the way he looked at John like he was looking through him, and seeing everything inside along the way, no matter how carefully hidden.

John drew in a shuddering breath just before their lips met, and damn if he didn't forget about balloons in favour of warm, firm lips and solid male bodies.

After several lingering moments, John finally drew back with a harsh breath, his whole body throbbing. After a gasp or two his eyes met Sherlock's, seeing the deep need to _know_ burning within them. "What the hell is this all about?" he asked, suddenly feeling almost naked. Stripped down and vulnerable. He forced himself to step back and away, turning from his teen fantasies and walking into the kitchen.

Sherlock let out a frustrated sound. It was a sigh, because Sherlock would not groan. And if he did, John knew, it would not sound quite so _needy_. "I told you." Sherlock's voice was still deep and uncomfortably close as he followed John into the kitchen.

"It's for a case, yes. What case in hell needs… all of that?" He gestured vaguely behind him, snatching his hand away when it bumped Sherlock's chest. John made a noisy show of unpacking the shopping, wishing there were more tins to make a satisfying crack on the counter.

"A dull one, suddenly," Sherlock said and John felt his flatmate's heat against his back. "I want to know about _you_ ," Sherlock practically purred.

"You already know everything about me," John said, abandoning the shopping – nothing needed to go into the biological minefield they called a fridge anyway. He ducked away, and rather than try to turn and squeeze past Sherlock, he rounded the table to avoid the other man.

"Obviously _not_ ," Sherlock said as he managed to head John off, stopping him at the kitchen door into the corridor, blocking John's efforts to get to his own room upstairs. John knew trying for the door into the sitting room would be an exercise in futility.

John desperately tried not to notice that Sherlock's lips were slightly pinker than usual, and he sure as hell didn't think about _why_ that was. "Yes, you do," John growled. He'd put this behind him, it wasn't part of his life anymore; it had nothing to do with who he was _now_. He'd already been called a freak once over this; his instinct wouldn't let it happen again. His mind skipped over the kiss and decided that it was just Sherlock being Sherlock and conducting some bizarre experiment. He suspected Angelo would be next.

"Is it the balloons?" Sherlock asked, chameleon eyes studying John, giving him no place to hide. "Specific ones? Watching them move? I've never encountered this before. You have to tell me everything!"

That bright, inquisitive, childlike look almost broke John. _Almost._ "Sorry," he said with a growl. "Whatever happened… when I came back was…" He tried to turn the tables and looked up sharply at his flatmate. "Why did you kiss me anyway?"

That did take Sherlock aback somewhat. "Data," he finally said, his face evasive for a second, before that studying, dissecting look returned. "You have to tell me. Why did you become so aroused when you got back?"

"How do you know I wasn't aroused already?" John said defensively, arms crossed over his chest, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock lest they catch a stray sight of some balloons on a reflective surface.

"John..." Sherlock drew his name out, a slightly scolding, patient tone that didn't allow John to get away with anything.

"What does it matter, anyway?" John tried to push Sherlock aside but the man wouldn't budge. "It won't happen again."

Sherlock moved quickly, and with a strength that shouldn't have surprised John as much as it did. Strong hands, quick arms, and John found himself in between dreams and nightmares and he wasn't sure which was which.

Behind him, Sherlock, close enough that they shared heat and he could feel the other man's heartbeat against his back. And he convinced himself that the hardness against his rear was something case-related and in no way a part of Sherlock's body.

In front of him… _Fuck_. Rubber balloons of every possible shape and size. Filling the sitting room, climbing up walls where static was at work. Many were taped to the mirror, and his chair had an array of long, slender animal balloons. He could even see a few twisted balloon animal dogs and Jesus holy fuck he didn't need to think about _those_ hands doing _that. Thankyouvery_ _ **fucking**_ _much._

"Breathe, John." Sherlock's murmured words against his ear caused John to start and realise that he had not, in fact, been breathing. His flatmate's hands were curled around John's upper arms, holding him firmly in place, facing the room and against Sherlock's chest.

"Let me go." John said. Now his hearing must be going because he had not spoken that quietly, his voice more of a plea than a demand.

"Don't be dull," Sherlock replied. "You're very much aroused by what you're looking at. So much so that you let me kiss you, something that all previous data tells me you wouldn't do."

_Hold on a minute._ "Previous data?" John asked. Sherlock had thought about kissing him?

"Mmm," was all the response he got. "You weren't aroused when you arrived," Sherlock Dog-With-A-Fucking-Bone Holmes said. "But within three seconds of opening the flat door, you were more aroused than I've ever seen you."

John drew in a shaky breath. "You've never seen me aroused," he countered.

"You don't pay close attention to your surroundings when you're in the sitting room with a woman," Sherlock murmured.

John, despite himself, was indeed too aroused and conflicted to argue that point.

"You're a doctor who killed people for a living," Sherlock said and the _non sequitor_ was enough to sharpen John's mind a bit. "Why is it so difficult for you to admit to an uncommon paraphilia?"

"Because it's not – I don't – I put it away, all right?!" John finally broke free and spun round, glaring at Sherlock. "When I was younger, yeah, it was… But I'm not like that, anymore. I'm just NORMAL!" He hated the youthful pain that surged through him as he recalled Christie's derisive laughter. It was one reason he disliked Donovan and had felt drawn to Sherlock so early in their acquaintance. He _hated_ being called a freak, and hated anyone who tossed the word about so casually.

"Oh no, John," Sherlock said quietly. He didn't reach for the other man but he did take half a step closer, crowding into John's space. "You're not normal. Normal is _DULL_. I couldn't live with a dull man. Couldn't work with one. No, John. You're a great many things, but dull is not one of them. Normal is not one of them. Whoever told you otherwise doesn't know you like I do. Doesn't know the man under the horrible jumpers and ill-fitting shirts, doesn't know the conductor of light that you are."

Somehow, Sherlock could make insulting his clothes sound like a compliment. "Yeah, maybe," John said, swallowing hard, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. "But that–" He gestured to the room behind him "Isn't… It's not… I gave it up, all right? I have sex just fine without it, without _them_."

"But _why_?" Sherlock asked, still and forever keen to know everything. "You clearly still find it arousing; why fight it? You can balance being a physician and a soldier, why can't you balance this as well?"

"Because I can't stand the way she looked at me!" John finally snapped. "When I told Christie that I liked … _them_ , she laughed at me. Said she should have known – I have a dyke for a sister; how could I be normal. She said that when we'd… she'd never..." He stopped, scrubbing his hands over his face. That insult is one reason he'd gotten his reputation with women – he'd fucking well _learned_ how their bodies worked, how to make sure no women ever had to fake it with him again.

"Ah!" Sherlock had his epiphany face on. "It's your partner's reaction you're afraid of," he said, eyes glittering speculatively, pink tongue briefly wetting pale lips.

"Yes! No! Argh, just let it go, Sherlock," John insisted. His body still felt like an over taut violin string, tension crowding out everything; even his erection had flagged.

Sherlock's hand reached for John's arm, and with all the entitlement that allowed him to steal John's food, tea, laptop, and pens, he drew John's hand closer, pressing his palm against his own erection. "I don't have any problem with your preferences," Sherlock said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to travel to John's brain by way of his hand rather than his ears.

In spite of himself, John felt his fingers curling, finding the shape of his flatmate under the fabric of his very, _very_ thin pyjama bottoms. "But we're not like that," John said, his protest admittedly feeble as he licked his own suddenly dry lips. John saw Sherlock's hand slip into his dressing gown pocket and his eyes went wide at what the man drew out. His erection was back – had been returning with a vengeance from the moment he'd felt Sherlock's fingers brush against his.

"Sherlock–" John gasped as pale, full lips wrapped themselves around the rolled up end of the latex oval. He could see Sherlock's chest expand as he drew in a breath, then slowly, John watched him exhale. In spite of himself, his tongue slid out to wet dry lips and anticipation slid down his spine.

The balloon filled gradually, the unworked material straining under the pressure. Something inside John broke and he reached up, cradling the latex gently in his hand, shivering when he felt it expand. "Fuck," he breathed, his breath a shuddering gasp.

Sherlock took another breath, and another, slowly filling the balloon in John's hand. Their eyes met, locked, and Sherlock kept inflating it. He kept one hand on John's, letting the man feel his continued, powerful arousal as his kink was indulged. His other hand held the balloon in place.

John watched and felt the balloon expand, his whole body throbbing in the way it usually only did when he was a lot more naked, and with hands on something warmer than rubber and softer than erections.

Sherlock was so distracted by his display for John that when the balloon popped from over-inflation, it startled them both. At that moment, John was a kid again, only this time he knew what was happening. The orgasm was no less devastating. He groaned, his knees going weak and only Sherlock's strong hands kept him from toppling over.

"My John," he heard Sherlock breathe in his ear. "This requires a great deal of study," he promised and John knew he was done fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is a tiny little 221b ficlet that demanded to be added. Think of it as the scene after the credits!


	2. 221 B Drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus after-the-credits 221B Ficlet!

John sat beside Sherlock as they gave their statements. They'd solved the case quite early that morning and had come in after a good night's sleep to give their accounts.

John was focused on Lestrade, and not Sherlock's hands. Almost too focused on the DI, because if he didn't keep his mind strictly and specifically focused on Lestrade and his case-related questions –

_**Snap**._

Sherlock looked innocent as the sound interrupted the DI's latest question.

John took a slow breath and kept his eyes fixed on Lestrade, lips in a tight line of annoyance, eyes blazing with something that wasn't annoyance at all.

Under the table, Sherlock made a point of stretching his leg, flexing it and surreptitiously bumping against John's just as his fingers moved again.

_**Snap**._

Lestrade gave Sherlock a look of mingled confusion and annoyance before resuming. The interview continued for two more questions, including John's simple and terse and Sherlock's more verbose but somehow much less helpful answers.

_**Snap**._

"Sherlock, will you cut that out?" Lestrade growled at the man.

"Thought your concentration was better than that," Sherlock said mildly, his eyes flashing with mischief. And while his face was towards Lestrade, his gaze was on John.

_**Snap**._

That was it. With a growl, John reached over, forced Sherlock's fingers apart, and took away his bloody balloon.


End file.
